On days like these, the rebel trees go dancing,
stripping leaves into a bitter-wet wind.
They clamber half-clad with slick drops on their skin
into bartender’s hands enchanting.
Over sunlight he’s casting calloused gunmetal palms,
masking the tang of cheap swill;
he grins, chews the granulated mist.
He pours a drink for the willow on the hill.
What clear pill does she ease
down her loose-corset branches?
She wonders once before
lucid greens start seething out of it.
The rainy dayclub is squeezing
sound out of the stillness;
drugs flick their tongues
in forgotten cups until they brim.
They ripple with reflections of limbs whittled.
The dancers giggle as they sweat.
They kiss and forget as they ride
a jagged sky with blurred edges.
Until they vomit in the dripping hedges
and pray that the sun would catch them.